


Snow Globe

by BummedOutWriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, Auror Harry Potter, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Professors, M/M, Memory Loss, Mpreg, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BummedOutWriter/pseuds/BummedOutWriter
Summary: Hermione’s eyes shot to the desk, an amused smile crossing her face. “Harry, that’s just a spelled object. Ron and I had one for Rose. It tracks a baby’s development in utero in real-time.”“Oh.” Harry breathed a sigh of relief.“Besides, it’s too small to be this actual baby. The size is relative to the globe.” Hermione lifted the globe, holding it up for her perusal. “I’d say this baby is about…five months along? Where did you get this?"“It was sitting here.”“Healers usually give this to the expectant parents…” Hermione trailed off as Harry paled.Harry awakes from amnesia with a spelled globe and several unanswered questions.





	Snow Globe

Harry’s head was throbbing. He peered dizzily at Hermione. “When did you grow your hair out?” he asked, somewhat intrigued that she would use a spell for cosmetic purposes. It just seemed contradictive to her character.

Hermione frowned at him in concern. She was dressed in her white healer robes, her bushy hair no longer hanging around her shoulders, but twisted up into a large bun atop her head. They were in the hospital, Harry realized, and Hermione was checking in on him. He was sure it violated some rule or the other, but he doubted Hermione cared.

“Harry, it’s been like this for ages,” she said, then muttered a spell that caused his head to tingle. The spell must not have had the effect she had been hoping for, because she pressed her lips and muttered another one.

A second healer entered the room, one who Harry did not recognize. The man pulled Hermione aside, and the two took to muttering amongst themselves.

Harry reached out to the nightstand, his hands closing around his glasses. Smiling at his success, he placed them over his nose. He blinked curiously through the frames. They were slightly different, more angular.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Hermione was back at his bedside, and so was the unidentified Healer whose nametag read _Miller._

Harry pondered on the inquiry, for the first time making a conscious effort to remember what had brought him into his current predicament. He saw a flash of Malfoy, of all people, and he felt the heat of summer. He saw night, and stars; the glow of a bonfire. He tasted wine on his tongue.

Harry blinked the memories away, trembling slightly. It had been intense and vivid, but weird and anachronistic. It didn’t belong anywhere.

Instead he clung to something more lucid and logical. “Graduation from auror training,” Harry breathed.

Hermione was aghast. “Harry, that was December of _last year._ It’s November now.”

_“What?”_

“You’re missing almost a year of your memory,” she said with a pained look.

“You were hexed during a raid,” Miller supplied at Harry’s baffled expression. “There is no detectible residual damage. The memory-loss seems to be incidental to your injury.”

“When will it come back?” said Harry.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. I can’t be sure it even _will_ come back.”

Harry felt bereft of…of something he couldn’t quite identify. He looked at Hermione helplessly. She gave a commiserating look and patted his arm. “It’s alright, Harry. You’re coming home with me and Ron. We’ll set you straight.”

*

Apparently Harry had become auror partners with Ron, just as he’d always wanted. He couldn’t remember any of it, of course. Instead, he felt robbed of all the fun times Ron assured they’d had together. Ron was oddly mum about anything unsavory they had encountered on the job. As far as Harry could tell, everything was gumdrops and daisies. His friends were _coddling_ him, which was frustrating, because Harry was _just fine_ , and they had their hands full as it was.

Ron and Hermione had a _baby_. Her name was Rose. She was red-haired and adorable. Harry was astonished the first time she was unceremoniously dumped into his arms.

“I missed a lot,” he’d said blankly.

“Not necessarily.” Ron shrugged. “Well, on our end.”

“What does that mean?” said Harry dubiously.

Ron seemed to catch himself. “I mean—you know. Things have been crazy here. We’ve been so caught up with the baby. But you’ve been busy as well. With work and things,” he added lamely.

Harry frowned down at Rose. “I’m boring,” he concluded.

“No, mate, you’re—you’re up for a promotion soon,” Ron grasped at straws. “And last month, we solved the McKinley case. That one was driving you crazy. Damn berk, stealing all those can openers…”

Harry peered around at the quaint little family. Hermione was sitting in an armchair in the corner, tucked into a massive tome, and happily ignoring them.

“So am I dating anyone?” Harry adjusted Rose in his arms.

Hermione perked at this, but pretended not to.

“Er…not that I’m aware,” Ron said, pathetically. “Like I said, we’ve been really busy with things, but, er…you seem content enough.”

“Content,” Harry echoed.

Oddly, _content_ was suffice for the moment. He felt a visceral satisfaction that he couldn’t explain. He didn’t _feel_ a particular need, and so he accepted it. He was only twenty-five after all. Harry nodded to Ron.

After spending several days at the Granger-Weasley household, it was time for Harry to go home. He would take a few weeks off from the DMLE and get reacquainted with his lavish (or dull) life, before returning to work.

Hermione gave him a peculiar look when he announced it. “It’s certainly…odd,” she admitted. “You’re usually a bit obsessed with your job. But you deserve a break, Harry. I’m glad.” She smiled.

*

At Grimmauld, everything was eerily normal. In fact, the house was pretty much how Harry had left it a year ago. It was a bit disturbing—the lack of change. Was he really so bland, so lacking in nuance?

 _There are a few new things,_ Harry had to admit, when he noticed a dark green tie hanging in his closet. Idly he glided his finger over the atrocity. He couldn’t imagine (or remember) himself buying it, but perhaps he had experienced a profound, almost schizophrenic, stylistic change over the past eleven months. Harry tossed the tie in the trash.

Harry also found that his office had changed somewhat. His usually-empty office was now cluttered with shelves of books on anything from hexes, to curses, defense spells, creatures, and potions. The desk was cluttered with quills and scrolls, upon which were half-written mission reports in his still-horrible handwriting that even _he_ could hardly read.

On the front of the desk was the oddest of paperweights. It was a globe, the size of a softball, with some sort of alien creature just curled inside it for no apparent reason. Harry was tempted to toss it, but resisted the urge. The ornament was strangely medical, like something Hermione might have given him as a gift. He shook his head and sighed.

He wished he had something like a journal, something to document what he had been up to for the past several months. All he had, unfortunately, were his scrawled auror reports, and they served as little to no help.

One of the guest rooms had seen the most change of all. It seemed that he had been in the middle of a project. All the furniture had been removed, the floor sanded and polished. There were several unopened paint cans, and brushes.

Harry shrugged, and spent the rest of the day painting the muggle way. He had chosen the color yellow for some reason, not that he had much affinity for it. Rather than fighting it, Harry just decided to follow his own lead. The results didn’t turn out that bad. He was sure once he properly decorated the room—in what way, or for what purpose, he was oblivious—it would be even brighter and more welcoming than it was now.

Harry retired to his office, slumping down behind the desk, and continuing to go over his mission reports for something that might jar his memory. His eyes continuously strayed to the weird paperweight. It didn’t make him uncomfortable. The opposite, really. He peered at it, tilting his head, truly curious of its purpose.

It wasn’t an alien, Harry realized, as he squinted at the thing. He removed his rectangular glasses to rub them on his shirt, before replacing them, a frown on his face. It was actually…moving. A limb waved languidly, prodding at the glass. It was a…baby.

Harry’s jaw dropped. He sat there, gawking for a moment, then ran off to the floo.

Only moments later, he was dragging a disheveled Hermione into his office. “There’s a baby in my snow globe!”

Hermione’s eyes shot to the desk, an amused smile crossing her face. “Harry, that’s just a spelled object. Ron and I had one for Rose. It tracks a baby’s development in utero in real-time.”

“Oh.” Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“Besides, it’s too small to be this actual baby. The size is relative to the globe.” Hermione lifted the globe, holding it up for her perusal. “I’d say this baby is about…five months along? Where did you get this?”

“It was sitting here.”

“Healers usually give this to the expectant parents…” Hermione trailed off as Harry paled.

He couldn’t help thinking about the cleared-out guest room. The yellow-painted walls. “Who…?” he managed.

“It’s impossible to say,” Hermione told him. “I’d imagine the mother would be showing by now. Oh. It’s a girl.”

Harry had to sit down.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, and Harry couldn’t tell whether she was containing a frown or a grin. She handed back the globe. Harry cradled it to his chest. “What do you think?” Hermione asked.

“I think it’s mine,” said Harry weakly.

*

Hermione told him more about the snow globe. If the image disappeared and turned white, it meant the mother had gone into labor. The color would darken to yellow, then red, depending on how far into labor the mother was.

If the globe turned black, it meant the baby was— But Hermione assured him that nothing like that would happen. The baby looked healthy. As for the mother, well…it would be impossible to trace her.

Harry could only assume that he and the mother had been on good terms. After all, he was setting up a _nursery_. But why hadn’t she come forward and contacted him? Why didn’t Ron and Hermione know about her or the baby? Harry felt lost.

His friends didn’t know about any pregnant witches in wizarding England, except for Pansy Parkinson, who was happily married to Theodor Nott.

And then there was the fact that he couldn’t imagine having sex with Pansy, or any witch that he could think of. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in the companionship aspect, it was just that no one seemed quite…right.

Harry went to St. Mungos and some other wizarding clinics to inquire about the construction of the globe, but no one could claim responsibility for crafting it.

“It may have been made by the mother herself, granted she’s a skilled enough witch.” Healer Dawson shrugged as he handed the globe back. “And I don’t have any twenty-two-week clients, not that I would be allowed to give you their information if I did.”

As winter approached, Harry obsessed over the image in abject misery. The baby was _growing_. He could see her _moving_ , and quite a lot lately. She was _strong_. Or so Hermione told him. The mother was almost six months along now.

Harry was shattered.

The holidays came, fast and unwelcome. Harry’s Christmas gifts had been pre-purchased, conveniently enough. He stumbled across them under a bed in one of the empty rooms. There were two hastily-wrapped parcels labeled _Ron_ and _Hermione_. Rose’s gift was done a bit more neatly, with a bow. It was very blatantly a rattle, which caused Harry to chuckle a bit.

He had not expected the final gift. It was impeccably wrapped in green paper, and labeled _Baby_.

He spent the beginning of the holidays with Ron and Hermione, but between their pitying looks and Rose’s innocent glee, Harry couldn’t get much into the holiday spirit.

He left Christmas Eve despite their protestations. He had accepted an invitation to spend a week at Hogwarts as a guest DADA lecturer. It would keep him occupied, and he couldn’t imagine himself going back to the DMLE yet, distracted as he was.

Harry didn’t think Minerva would penalize him for coming early. Hogwarts had always been home to him, and just the thought of it comforted him to a certain extent. So he bade Ron and Hermione (and Rose) goodbye, and apparated to Hogsmeade. The trek to the castle was peacefully nostalgic, notwithstanding the occasional student who would catch sight of his scar, stop in their tracks, and gawk.

*

“Harry, it’s good to see you again.” Minerva grasped his hand.

“I have amnesia,” Harry blurted. “Sorry, just…I know I’ve done this before. I just can’t remember.”

Minerva gave him a contemplative look. “Well, then—welcome, Harry. Thank you for agreeing to lecture for our sixth and seventh years.”

Her face was light and sympathetic. Harry was surprised that she already knew about his affliction, but it seemed typical that Hermione would call ahead. “Thank you,” he murmured as he was guided into the Great Hall.

Refreshingly, the students didn’t seem too impressed by his presence. Apparently, he had made an appearance earlier that very school year.

In contrast, Harry was shocked by the unexpected arrangement of professors at the Hogwarts staff table. There were the staples like Bins, Flitwick, and Sinistra, but Zacharias Smith was sitting in Hagrid’s old spot, Milicent Bulstrode was chomping through stacks of toast with her famously heavy jaw, and Blaise Zabini was immersed in conversation with Justin Finch-Fletchley. Just when Harry suspected he had not encountered the Hogwarts staff, but a compilation of all his enemies, he spotted a familiar face and breathed.

“Oh, hullo Harry.”

“Neville. Hi.” Harry took a seat beside the other Gryffindor. “You took over the Herbology post, didn’t you?”

Harry pulled a plate towards him, and as Neville fell into inconsequential chatter— _Hooch was retiring, what a shame and_ —the door to the Great Hall opened, and Harry glanced its way.

A shock ran through him as his eyes met gray ones. Draco Malfoy had entered the room and was looking directly at him.

But rather than holding the eye contact, Harry looked away, by some strange compulsion. He did his best to follow the conversation with Neville. It seemed that Hogwarts was being overtaken by Slytherins.

*

“Watch it Potter.”

Harry yelped as Malfoy blatantly pushed him into the Hufflepuff table. He crashed messily against it, like Godzilla crushing Tokyo. Dishes flew in every direction. Hufflepuffs ran, squealing. Neville hurried over, trying to restore order to his house.

Hand on his stomach, Malfoy stalked off to the staff table and elegantly took his seat beside Blaise, where he began to eat as though nothing had happened. Malfoy must have been violating the dress code in some regard, because he looked far too stylish to be in professorial robes. His hair was slightly longer than Harry recalled, left to hang in his eyes rather than sleeked back as usual. He looked weary, but fiery, and was being ridiculously temperamental. He had been shooting Harry thinly-veiled insults all day.

_I’m afraid your clothes might violate the uniform, Potter. Perhaps you would consider ironing them?_

_Please tame your hair Potter, students might mistake you for a troll._

_Oh gosh Potter, did you mix up the soap with grindylow shit? You smell like **hot garbage**._

Harry climbed off the table, grimacing as food and drink spilled off his robes. He was sick of the nonsense. They were adults! He couldn’t stand Malfoy, the man was just so…blonde.

 _ **That** was the best I could come up with? Blonde?_ Harry gulped. He cast a quick _scorgify_ on himself and stiffly walked over to the staff table with what dignity he had left. He shot Malfoy a dirty look as he took his seat, refusing to condescend to the pureblood’s petulant behavior. Malfoy glared at him as he tore into his roast, chewing angrily. Harry abortively tried not to think about the heat pooling in his stomach.

_Was he attracted to this!?_

It was insane how all the other professors pretended not to notice Malfoy’s unhinged behavior. Minerva cleared her throat and said _absolutely nothing_. Zabini gave a wry smile and leaned over to mutter something in Malfoy’s ear. Smith snickered into his quiche. Even Neville didn’t seem too bothered by the scene as he returned to the table and dug into his meal.

Harry himself couldn’t summon the righteous indignation he should have been feeling, and it didn’t make sense. He finished his dinner and went to his staff quarters, where he paced and further speculated on Malfoy’s erratic, unprofessional, conduct. It was like Malfoy was obsessed with him. Or vice versa. Or _something_. How was Harry to spend two weeks with this level of animosity? It simply couldn’t go on.

“Git,” Harry muttered. He had enough to deal with as it was, and he wouldn’t have Malfoy added to the list. He walked out of his quarters and headed straight for Malfoy’s. He only knocked twice before the door flung open so violently, Harry half-expected it to tear from the wall.

“What!?” Malfoy snapped, his skin flushed, face twisted, belly heaving, and—wait, what?

Harry stared at Malfoy’s rounded belly. He looked pregnant. In fact, he looked six months gone.

“What do you want, Potter? Here to take another jab at me?”

“I—what?” Harry stammered

And then, to his combined amazement and horror, Malfoy covered his eyes with his arm and began to cry.

“Wait—don’t—” said Harry, still too alarmed to form proper sentences.

“Is that all you have to say, you tosser!?” Malfoy said, impatiently rubbing his tears away with the back of his hand. “I don’t hear from you for a month, and you show up here acting like you don’t even know me, and now—” Malfoy seemed to lose patience with words, because he grabbed for his wand.

“I have amnesia,” said Harry, grabbing Malfoy’s wrist to aim the wand away from its target, that being Harry’s groin.

“…what?”

“From my last mission,” Harry added quickly.

Malfoy face took on a bewildered look, which quickly twisted back into contempt. “How much did you lose?” he spat.

“I don’t remember anything that’s occurred in the past year.” And before Malfoy could interrupt, Harry said, “Is that, um…” He swallowed. “Is that my baby?” He motioned forward.

Malfoy stared at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded, just slightly.

Harry’s fingers twitched. He wanted to move his hand to the spot where he knew the baby was probably kicking, where she _always_ kicked. But he stopped himself. “Can I come in?”

Malfoy stepped aside, allowing Harry entrance, then followed him in and slumped down in a chair by the mantle. He looked gorgeous, even as—as _pregnant_ as he was getting. It was dizzying. Harry’s feelings of _want_ for the baby and confusion over Malfoy conflicted disconcertingly. He clutched the globe in his pocket, but it wouldn’t serve him here. It was just an object; a barrier.

“How—?” Harry started, then tried again. “Why—?”

Malfoy ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it up nicely. He glared down, at his stomach, _their baby_. “Midsummer celebration,” he muttered. “The equinox. We got drunk. I have veela blood. And, well…” He absently rubbed the side of his mound.

“So we’re not together,” said Harry.

“We are—” Malfoy cut himself off, looking immensely uncomfortable. “We _were_. You wanted to try to make things work.”

“And…?”

“It did—I mean, it _was_. Fuck.” Malfoy put his face in his hands.

“We were _working?_ ” Harry asked, not sure why his stomach flipped in hope.

Malfoy nodded curtly.

“How…how _well?_ ” Harry wanted to know.

Malfoy took in a long breath. “Potter, you need to leave.”

“But I—I just found—”

“Potter,” said Malfoy, finally looking up. He looked weary, his face pink and blotchy.

“Right. Okay.”

Harry returned to his quarters and went to bed, setting the globe on the mattress beside him so that he could watch it. The baby nudged at its wall for hours, until finally, Harry fell asleep.

*

It was Christmas morning, and Malfoy looked horrible. He wouldn’t look at Harry, who was uneasily appraising his meal two seats down.

Harry had known, vaguely, that he was gay. He had sort of been avoiding the issue. But he supposed the act of knocking up a man had settled the matter. He couldn’t even remember it, to his frustration. He tried to imagine himself being with Malfoy, and surprisingly…it wasn’t that difficult.

That day, Harry started to notice Malfoy’s idiosyncrasies. How his movements were heavier than they would have been were he really as slim as his glamour presented him to be.

He noticed how the other professors were always exceedingly nice and accommodating towards Malfoy despite the blonde’s terse behavior.

That afternoon, he and Malfoy were the only people in the staffroom, it being the holiday and all. As Harry pretended to read through a text, Malfoy was angrily grading Potions essays, slashing _D_ shaped marks on a concerningly large amount of them. His shoulders were tense, his fingers practically breaking the quill in his grasp. The stress couldn’t be good for the baby.

“Hey,” said Harry.

Malfoy stiffened but didn’t lift his head.

“I do...um, want to make things work.”

“I can’t do this all over again,” said Malfoy, exasperated.

“Just give me a chance,” Harry protested. “Er, _another_ chance.”

Malfoy went back to ignoring him.

“If not for me, then for the baby.”

Malfoy lifted his head to sneer. “That’s what you said last time.” His fingers looked close to tearing the roll of parchment he was clutching.

“I’ll do anything,” Harry implored. “We can pick up right where we left off. Tell me what you want.”

“Sex.”

Harry choked.

“Lots and lots of sex.” Malfoy’s eyes flashed with triumph.

Harry took a moment to collect his composure. “Right, okay.”

Malfoy eyed him. “Tonight.”

Harry nodded.

“My quarters.”

“S-sure.”

Still giving Harry an odd look, Malfoy got up, gathered the essays, and left.

*

Harry continued to rummage with his hair in the mirror, but the results didn’t look any less stupid than it had when he’d started. Sighing in defeat, he lowered his hands and headed for Malfoy’s quarters.

“Hi…Draco,” said Harry as he walked through the door. He cringed slightly in anticipation of a rebuttal. But there was silence. Harry turned around to see Malfoy watching him blankly. The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched.

“You never use my given name,” said Malfoy, moving forward.

“Well I think it’s time.” Harry feigned confidence.

“Hm.”

And then Malfoy was standing in front of him, watching him blankly. For now there wasn’t enmity, just tolerance and curiosity. Harry moved his hands slowly to Malfoy’s shoulders, almost afraid to touch him, and then internally cursing himself. He pulled Malfoy into a light kiss, the bump pressing between them in a way that made Harry’s heart swell. Then Harry pulled back, feeling victorious, and Malfoy—

Burst into laughter.

Harry’s flushed as Malfoy laughed uncontrollably, seconds turning to minutes. It didn’t seem that he would ever stop. Malfoy clutched his stomach, and Harry guided him to take a seat on the bed. Before Harry could flee, Malfoy pulled him down to sit beside him, and they kissed again lightly, until Malfoy stopped laughing, instead smiling through the contact. It wasn’t a smirk, or an expression twisted in evil, but an actual smile, and it was beautiful.

Malfoy sighed into Harry’s shoulder. “It’s like you’re a virgin again,” he said, shaking with sniggers.

Harry reddened worse and gave a grim smile. “Yeah.”

“She’s moving,” Malfoy grumbled, taking Harry’s hand to guide it to the nudges. Harry’s eyes went wide, then lowered in rapture. He idly kissed Malfoy’s head and rubbed the bump until the movements subsided.

“Happy Christmas,” said Harry.

“Mm.”

Harry pulled back. “I have something for you.” He walked to his briefcase set in the corner, opened it, and pulled out the green-wrapped box.

Malfoy scowled as Harry returned to the bed. “I said I didn’t want to do presents.”

Harry blinked. “Which is why it’s not for you.” He pointed at the label, feeling a bit smug with his caveat.

Malfoy frowned, but peeled back the paper in a very elegant, very Malfoy-ish way. Beneath was a miniature chest that had even Harry raising his brows. Malfoy set it on the floor and resized it to normal.

“A toy chest? A bit early for one, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged.

Malfoy opened the chest and leaned down, his form disappearing behind the lid. “It has an extension charm.”

“Does it?” said Harry, walking around the chest to see that Malfoy was gone. Harry climbed in after him, his feet dropping lightly into a large, open room with soft white carpeting. There was a multitude of toys and stuffed animals on a table and some shelves. To the other side of the room was a crib and a rocking chair. It was a combined playroom and nursery. A family of stuffed animals marched along the light blue walls.

“A portable nursery.” Malfoy crossed his arms and gave a lazy smile. “Same old Potter,” he mused aloud.

*

Harry couldn’t stand to be away from Draco for the rest of the year. After his time as a DADA lecturer ran out, he asked Minerva to give him the Flying instructor position for the remainder of the semester, and to his relief, she agreed.

Things with Draco were going better than Harry could have imagined. In place of Draco’s anger was amusement, which was just fine with Harry. Draco mocked his innocence yet leaned into his kisses without much complaint—or any at all.

The physicality wasn’t a bad thing—it was actually quite nice. Harry found himself steadily becoming a glutton for the sensation of Draco’s skin against his.

Harry woke up one night several weeks later, and with a yawn, glanced at the window. It was still dark out. He climbed up and got himself a glass of water, before returning to bed and gazing at the globe.

The baby was active, gently cuffing and kicking at her confined home.

Minutes later, Harry found himself outside of Draco’s quarters, just in his pajamas and a dressing gown. He knocked and waited. Minutes later, the door opened, and an exhausted Draco stood in the frame looking peeved.

“Your hyperactive daughter will not let me sleep,” he grumbled, one arm wrapped around his abdomen. By then he was eight months along.

“I know,” Harry murmured, giving Draco an apologetic kiss. He allowed himself to be pulled into the rooms, and the two curled up on the bed, Draco’s back to Harry’s chest. Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and rubbed his belly with soothing circles. He looked at the globe on the night stand. The baby began to calm.

Draco fell asleep.

*

A few weeks later, Harry had back to back Flying lessons, then had to referee a Quidditch match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin that became a blood bath, curiously, to the Slytherin team’s detriment. After dealing with the barrage of broken limbs, bloody noses, and a case of a young man almost being strangled by his own green and silver tie, Harry slumped off to his quarters. He gave a longing look to his bed but grabbed his briefcase. Though he was well-deserving of a nap, Zabini had cerebrumous spattergroit (or was it chlamydia?), and Harry had to cover his Transfiguration lessons that afternoon.

Upon his arrival at the Transfiguration classroom, Harry slammed his briefcase on the desk, and began to dig out the necessary texts and papers, when the sight of the globe gave him pause.

The baby was gone. In her place was a white glow.

Harry’s breath hitched. He looked up to see that one of the students was receiving an impromptu message before the lesson.

“Er—Reynolds? Can I borrow your owl?”

The pimply fourth-year shrugged, and Harry walked over to take the screech owl from the student’s desk. Jotting a quick note—

_Hey, are you okay?_

—Harry sent the bird off to Draco.

The lesson was not productive. Harry was a nervous, jittery mess, and he hardly knew what he was rambling about. The students merely stared at him in morbid fascination, until the owl returned, at which point Harry halted the lesson. He unrolled Draco’s note with shaking hands, and read—

_Yes. Why?_

It was a bit anticlimactic.

Harry raced through the remainder of the lesson, even ending it early, but giving loads of extra homework to compensate. He ignored the students’ menacing expressions and knuckle-cracking shenanigans as he hastily stuffed miscellaneous stuff into his briefcase and hurried off to the dungeons.

When Harry arrived at the Potions lab, Draco was seated behind his desk, absently rubbing his back. He looked a bit flushed, but otherwise fine. “Are you okay?” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Fine,” he said, scrunching his nose at Harry’s disheveled appearance. “Why are you—?”

“You’re in labor,” Harry blurted out.

“What? No I’m not.”

“But the globe—”

“Harry that thing’s a toy. A novelty. I’m the _real_ thing, and I think I would know if I was…” He paused, grimacing. “My back is killing me.”

“Draco…”

Draco shot him a scathing look so Harry shut his mouth.

Second-year students began to shuffle into the room, giving Harry curious looks, but otherwise not addressing him. Harry went to the back and removed the globe from his pocket to cradle it in his hands. He knew he had an unreasonable amount of faith in the object, but it had guided him well so far. Besides, Draco was almost at term, so the idea that he was in labor wasn’t farfetched. Harry alternated between gazing at the globe and scrutinizing Draco, who in turn, shot him glares for intruding on his lesson.

Towards the end of the class, Draco began to grimace, resting his hand on his seemingly flat abdomen. He instructed the students to review a chapter and stepped out. Harry followed, to find Draco leaned back on the corridor wall, his glamour falling.

“I suppose I owe you a concession,” he managed.

“Hospital wing,” said Harry flatly.

“Who will dismiss the class?”

“No one. They’ll be stuck there forever.”

“You’re getting sarcastic,” said Draco icily.

“You’re rubbing off on me. C’mon.”

Harry took his hand and guided him towards the hospital wing. They had to stop every so often to deal with a contraction. It wasn’t long before Draco was leaning on him for support, Harry rubbing his back.

The occasional student passed, wearing a look of surprise or excitement. Not many of them knew about Draco’s pregnancy, but there had been the rumors. Harry threw them weak smiles to assure them, _It’s okay, we’re fine_ , and Draco shot them venomous looks of threat when he wasn’t too busy groaning into Harry’s shoulder.

“It’s not too bad,” Draco grumbled, as Harry wrapped his arms around him. But the fact that he wasn’t pulling away was a testament of his discomfort. Their trip was proving a slow progression, between the contractions, and the expansiveness of the castle. Several times, Harry was tempted to just carry the other man. But he didn’t push things, and he tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

“Oh!” said Madame Pompfrey, when they finally made it to the hospital wing. “Mr. Malfoy, I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

Draco scowled at her.

“He’s in some pain,” Harry offered.

Madame Pomfrey snorted and helped them to a bed.

Over the next several hours, Harry didn’t leave Draco’s side. Draco shifted uncomfortably, trying to contain his groans. The globe was yellow by then, and getting incrementally darker. Soon it became orange, then red. By that point, Draco even accepted Harry’s hand to hold, and he squeezed it with all his strength.

After their daughter was born, the two could do little more than stare at her. Draco was flushed and sweaty. He smiled wearily.

Harry was simply…astonished…that this was _his_. That he had been awarded so greatly, and for no reason aside from bumping into Draco and appealing for his affections.

And somehow, Harry didn’t regret his lost year of memory. He had awoken from amnesia to a brand new family.

The globe was clear now. He set it aside. Then he kissed Draco. He kissed their baby.


End file.
